Timeless

Chapter 17

"Foxhunting?" Doctor Huston offered.

"You don't go foxhunting!" Rosie snapped. "You don't go talkin' about it, you don't go cryin' about it. You get back in the seat and you finish the damn job."

Doctor Huston was silent for a long moment, looking between the two of them. "You're both cut from the same cloth."

But Rosie wasn't done yet. "I was in a rhythm. Three days, three missions, three wheels down. Boom, boom, boom. It's, like, Jean Crouper. You don't stop Jean Crouper in the middle of a drum solo, do ya? Then ask him two weeks later to dip back in where he left off without missin' a beat, do ya?"

"Maybe not. But Jean Crouper's gotta think about more than just his own rhythm. He's responsible for the rhythm of the whole band, isn't he?"

"The outfield has to do their thing," Kathryn mumbled. "And waiting for your turn is the worst part."

Between the sports and the drum analogy, Rosie just sat there and let the thoughts stew. But Doctor Huston's gaze had fallen on Kathryn. "And what's your turn, Nurse Egan?"

"I'm a damn doctor. I want to do more." Kathryn hissed the words out. "I need to do more. Or what's the whole point? Huh? What's the point of it all?"

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Getting dragged from solitary wasn't the worst part of the day. But Bucky could be certain that interrogation with any sort of German Officer was going to be hell . "Major Egan, come in!" The false invitation lurked like some sort of threat. Like he had some sort of damn choice in the matter.

Bucky didn't altogether like the way that the other men shut the door behind him firmly—and this beady eyed freak was staring at him like he was some sort of silver platter. "I am your interrogator, Lieutenant Hausmann. Please, sit."

Begrudgingly, he painstakingly took a seat. "Can I get you a whiskey?" Hausmann questioned, looking at him politely.

"Thanks," Bucky's voice just barely sounded out of his throat. He watched the man carefully as he poured the drinks and then brought one over to Bucky. "There's uh, mud in your eye," Bucky stated, downing the drink quickly.

It burned down his throat—but it was the first drink he had had in days. It would do, for now. "I don't know that one." Hausmann's creepy smile did not dissipate. "Here's mud in your eye," he toasted, then took a sip of his own drink.

Recognizing quickly that Bucky Egan was not a man of many words—at least not to him—Hausmann just let out a sigh and handled the file in front of him. "So, where shall we begin?"

"How about I was in a town? And someone shot four of the guys with me—"

"What town?"

"Russelheim—"

"Rüsselsheim. That's tragic, I will add it to the report." There wasn't a single sign of any shock or feeling in his voice. "Your colleagues, the ones who were killed, if you give me their name and rank, I can pass it on—"

"I don't know their names," Bucky grit the words out. He didn't know their names and he never would. But he had been with them, he had nearly died with them, and he had watched them all die. "We just happened to be put together. Look, I appreciate the drink and would really appreciate a thicker blanket. But as far as what you're gonna get from me, it's gonna be name, rank, and serial number."

"Serial number, yes. Yours is 0399510, yes I already know that." Bucky just felt sick as he stared at this man. "I also already know that you were born in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Married? From what I hear, definitely not," he gave a grin and then his gaze fell back on the paper. "From what I see here though, you have a sister—Kathryn—who followed you over here and is a nurse. How sweet—"